Fire and Ice
by Devon Goes to Heaven
Summary: AU. Lyanna survives and escapes Westeros with baby Jon in tow. Years later Jon returns to Westeros with his mother to take his rightful place as King, and a certain redhead catches his eye... Jon/Sansa
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Game of Thrones, it's characters, or any of its properties. I am not profiting from this in any way._

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

 _"You should see my new blade. I've named it 'heart eater.'" Joffrey's grin widens as he draws the blade from his scabbard. "You'll kiss it now and you will kiss it again when it is drenched in Targaryen blood."_

Her lips never touched the steel of his blade. Her lack of obedience was meant as an act of defiance and Sansa paid for that insolence with a slap from her king. The bruise on her cheek still stings as she carefully runs her fingers across the mark he left on it. Sansa regards the past with shame. She once believed Joffrey to the be the muse of romantic poems and hymns. Sansa bows her head as her shoulders carry the weight of her contrition. Joffrey is the penance - the iron price - and she must pay for the actions she'd taken in her naive thirst for love.

With her head still bowed, Sansa laces her hands together in prayer. Her prayers are to her father, her mother, and her three brothers - all whom have now fallen. She sends a soft prayer that Arya is alive, healthy and loved, wherever she may be. Her prayers come to Jon Targaryen, the man whose army lays siege to their land. Sansa prays for his victory and for his mercy, for no king in her eyes could be more deplorable than Joffrey Baratheon.

"Come here, little dove."

Interrupted from her prayer, Sansa's eyes rise to meet Cersei's. The Queen's well manicured fingers hold a glass of deep red wine between them and her eyes narrow with hatred. A staggered, coarse breath escapes Sansa as she rises to her feet, her legs feeling heavy as she takes several uneasy steps toward the Queen. Cersei lifts her free hand to Sansa's bruised cheek and cruelly pinches it between her thumb and index finger.

"Sit," she shouts as she tugs the girl downward.

Sansa's legs buckle, her knees colliding with the wooden floor panels beneath her. Cersei withdraws her hand and rests it in her lap as if it had been there all along. Their eyes meet, both sharing looks of contempt for one another.

"What were you doing," Cersei asks.

"Praying."

The Queen's lips twist into a snarl as she leans toward Sansa. "You're perfect, aren't you? Praying? What are you praying for?"

"For the gods to have mercy on us all." The words leave Sansa's lips in a soft, fearful whisper.

Cersei brings her wine glass to her lips as she studies her. "Oh? On all of us? Even me? Even Joffrey?"

Sansa's chest constricts as tries to force false words from her mouth. Her throat feels dry and coarse. She should say words of praise for her king, but she can no longer will herself to praise Joffrey. Not after all of the grief he has caused her. Not after killing her entire family, one by one...

"Of course not." Cersei's pupils dilate as her lips turn into a crude half smile. "You poor naive little fool. You haven't the slightest clue of what a Targaryen is capable of. You have not lived through their dynasty, nor have you seen their brutality with your own eyes. Poor, poor Brandon Stark…"

A smug smile crosses her lips as she draws the glass of wine to her mouth. Cersei sips and then exhales heavily. Her eyes fall onto Sansa once more, slightly unfocused but still so full of life. She taps the back of her hand against Sansa's bruised cheek in a intimidating gesture.

"A bruise is nothing to what that family is capable of." Cersei sets her glass aside and takes a spare cup in your hand.

"One for her," she says as she motions for her servant to fill it with wine. She offers the small glass to Sansa. "Here. Drink."

With trembling hands, Sansa takes the glass from the queen. She eyes Cersei warily as she brings the cup to her mouth and delicately sips at it.

"Not like that," Cersei insults. "Drink, girl."

Sansa tips the glass up a little higher and takes a significantly larger gulp. The dry taste of the red wine overwhelms her and she coughs after swallowing the liquid. Even after her cough subsides, her chest burns. She holds her small glass in both hands, staring down at the pool of red liquid at the bottom.

"I should have been born a man," Cersei bemoans. "I'd rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens."

"They are your guests under your protection," Sansa reasons. "You asked them here."

"It - was - expected - of me." Cersei bites back, enunciating each word clearly.

"If my wretched brother should somehow prevail, these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them - lifted their spirits."

"And, if the city shall fall?" Sansa asks.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Cersei's voice becomes cold. "The Red Keep should hold for some time - long enough for me to yield to Jon Targaryen in person. If he were anyone else's son I might have hoped for a private audience, but this is Lyanna's son and I am Robert's Queen. The tart loathed him enough to part her legs for Rhaegar Targaryen. The spiteful bitch will never allow me anywhere near her dear son. Drink."

Sansa obeys, taking another generous sip of her wine.

"You - you might be granted an audience. Does that excite you," Cersei taunts. "There's this saying…madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin and the whole world holds their breath. If I were you, little girl, I'd pray the city holds tonight."

Sansa's lips part to expel a soft gasp at the Queen's words. "And, if the city should fall?"

Cersei's eyes seem to dance with some sick form of humor at her question. "Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked?"

Sansa does not answer her. She raises her glass to her lips and devours the last of her wine as the answer becomes apparent to her.

"If this city falls, you and all of these women should be in for a bit of a rape." The Queen's jaw is clenched as she enunciates each cruel word. "When a man's blood is up anything with tits looks good. A precious girl like you to a mad Targaryen conqueror will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten. I wonder…will he live up to his grandfather's savagery, hmm? Perhaps you'll regret all your silly little prayers then."

Sansa's glass slips from her hand and breaks against the wooden floor. Cersei chuckles at her as she reaches to grasp her chin with her free hand. "Did your father ever tell you how your grandfather died?"

Sansa nods into Cersei's hand as dread fills her. The sound of the door being forced open startles Sansa. Her fear subsides as one of Cersei's knights rushes to her. Cersei releases her grip on Sansa's chin and rises to her feet. Sansa expels a deep breath as she shudders involuntarily.

"Your grace," the knight shouts.

"What news," Cersei asks in reply.

"Lord Tyrion has fallen." His voice is filled with terror. "The Targaryen army is overpowering our forces."

"Where is Joffrey," Cersei asks.

"On the battlements, your grace," the man says.

"Bring him back inside at once," Cersei commands.

Sansa rises to her feet. She scans the room for her handmaiden, Shae. There is a defeated look in Shae's eyes. The woman blinks away her tears as her gaze lifts to meet Sansa's as the girl approaches her and smiles weakly.

"We've lost," Shae says. "You must leave the queen's sight. Go to your room. Bar your door. You carry the Stark name. That name is enough that Jon will grant you mercy."

Shae takes Sansa's wrist in her hand and guides towards the open door. She caresses Sansa's bruised cheek before brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear.

"Come with me," Sansa pleads in a soft, desperate whisper.

Shae's gaze falls to the floor as another tear slips down her cheek. "I must grieve. Sansa. Forget about me. Forget about the Queen's words and Joffrey's threats. Go to your chambers and stay there until this is all over."

"But…"

"Go," Shae urges her. "Jon won't hurt you, but he will." She silently gestures to Gregor Clegane.

Shae steps away from Sansa, her lips pressing into a hard line. She gives Sansa a small shove and turns away from her. Sansa pauses to think. To stay would indicate an allegiance to King Joffrey and the Queen. To leave might make her appear independent from them. Sansa tenses. She makes her choice. She draws in one final breath before she makes for the door.


	2. The Battle of Blackwater Bay

_**Fire and Ice**_

 _I. The Battle of Blackwater Bay_

The thick ocean breeze pervades the air as sails flap against the cool wind. Jon stands at the bow of his ship, gazing out into a sea of stars. A gust of wind rushes by, caressing his dark hair. He can scarcely see the edge of Blackwater Bay in the dark night. The screeching sound of Daenerys's dragons interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to see his aunt standing in a long blue overcoat coat. Her shoulders are squared and chin is raised with the look of pride she's always carried so well.

"Do you think we will win?" he asks with a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

Daenerys crosses her arms, tilting her chin just a fraction higher. Her lips pressed together, and there is a disapproving grimace on her face. "We have no choice, _Jon_. It is our destiny. You rule the west. I rule the east. We will win this fight and bring peace to the world."

She's petite and fair, but Daenerys has more confidence than a burly man wielding a well tempered blade. He's always admired this quality of hers - an undaunted force of will that not even the Gods could strip her of. Daenerys has lived her life as if she's already seen their victory. Not even a glimpse of doubt has ever crossed her since they began this conquest together.

Jon tries to picture himself upon the Iron Throne. There is a woman by his side with long locks that spill past her breasts in a sea of red waves. A woman with red hair - it's the woman he's dreamed of since he was young. A fleeting smile emerges upon his lips as he pictures this imaginary woman touching his skin. Her eyes are a striking blue as they look up to him with adoration.

Jon's heart skips as he pulls himself from his thoughts. "What will you do when we win?"

"Once The Seven Kingdoms yield to House Targaryen," Daenerys' voice is as sharp as a blade of Valyrian steel. "I will return to Meereen, and I will rule."

The feeling of victory rushes through his veins. He turns to see small specks of light from Blackwater Bay in the distance. Anticipation rises within him as his blood becomes hot with adrenaline. He imagines his hands touching cool iron as he sits upon a throne of swords. His black leathers feel tight, and his muscles are wrought with strained tension. Victory is within his reach. He must seize it and never let go.

The chilled wind touches his cheeks as a large shadow crosses through the water. _A ship?_ Jon takes a step forward as his eyebrows furrow. The wooden ship is unlit and barren of any life. It's a distraction - a clever ruse his enemies have played against him. Jon steps backwards as his eyes stay on the lone ship. A lit arrow sails through the air, landing upon the ship. The ship erupts in a display of flying debris and emerald fire, knocking both Jon and Daenerys on their backs.

Smoke fills Jon's lungs and he dissolves into a coughing fit. His chest burns as his coughs subside and the smoke clears. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears and the screams from his fleet. He pulls himself to his feet, offering his hand to Daenerys. She takes his hand in hers and pulls herself to her feet. Her eyes dilate upon glancing at the green fire stretching itself mercilessly across their fleet.

" _Wildfire_ …" Daenerys whispers. "We must go find Lyanna. The only way to survive this attack is to leave this ship. Our fleet must land _now_."

 _She's right_. His fleet is plentiful, and the remaining soldiers are enough to still lay a brutal attack upon Joffrey's army. He follows Daenerys through a horde of men moving through the ship in panic. He scans through his men, searching for his mother. He sees a blue rose upon his mother's dark hair, and she's dressed in black leathers that match his. Her grey eyes raise to meet his, and she rushes towards him the moment she sees him. Daario and Arthur Dayne follow closely behind her as she runs to him in a sharp sprint.

His mother grips his biceps as she looks up to him. "It's only a small trick. We can still win this, Jon."

"We need to land," Jon says as he turns his gaze over to Daario and Ser Barristan. "Prepare our soldiers."

"We are still far from the gates, your grace," Arthur Dayne informs. "We will have to row quite a bit before reaching the shore, but there is still a great chance for victory."

Jon presses his lips together as his shoulders tense. "We do not have any other option, but to abandon our ships. Our army is still large enough to lay siege to King's Landing. This is only an unfortunate set back."

Jon shifts his gaze back to his mother. Her grip tightens on his arms as her eyes widen. Her eyes search his as she waits for him to speak.

"Thousands will die for this," Jon says to her. "These are men that put their faith in me…"

"It was an unexpected circumstance," his mother replies says. "You, nor I, nor anyone one else could have predicted that the Lannisters had a dirty trick up their sleeve."

Jon's blood is hot with anger. He draws in a heavy breathe, and expels it into the air. There is another cracking explosion. Jon glances over his shoulder to see the smoldering green fire spilling across the ocean. There is no more time. They have to abandon this ship.

Jon walks back over to the crowd of his men. He moves through the crowd till he stands before all of them. "All of you have traveled several leagues to support my claim. I am proud to have each of you here with me on this day. The Baratheon's small legacy has been one of negligence and cruelty. We fight tonight not just for my father's name, but for a better world for your sons and your daughters! _Who's with me?_ "

His men howl and cheer his name, bringing a proud smile to his lips. Hearing his name chanted by his men makes him swell with confidence. Jon pivots on his right foot. He moves towards a wooden boat swaying from twin ropes. He extends his hand out to his mother and clasps his hand tightly around hers. Jon helps lift her into the boat and climbs in after her.

The two sit in front of the boat as Daario, Ser Barristan, and the rest of his Kingsguard pile into the boat. Jon glances over to Daenerys. A subtle grin crosses her lips as she says, "I will take to the skies with Drogon. The next time I see you, you will be king."

Her words are as promising and strong as ever. Jon gives her a curt nod before his men lower the boat downwards. He takes a wooden oar into his hands and dips it into the water. The current is surprisingly smooth against his oar. The Gods have been kind enough to bless him with fair weather today. He can see light from the battlements in this distance. He is close now. Perhaps the Gods will be kind enough to bless him with victory as well.

"We're close," his mother says. "Please Jon... _promise me_...don't die tonight. I have lost my husband, my brothers - _to lose you_...I would have nothing left to live for."

"You know I can't make that promise," he says. " _But_ , I'm asking you the same. You are the most important person in my life. I would be lost without you."

He glances over to his mom. They share a small glimpse before Jon's eyes return to the shore. They are closing in on the shore. His body goes numb as his adrenaline spikes. All his doubts and fears are pushed to the back of his mind as he stares forward. The city walls loom in the distance with men drawing arrows of fire against their bows. Several arrows fly through the sky and drop towards his fleet. The boat opposite of him catches fire. The men howl in agony as they throw themselves overboard to diminish the flames on their backs.

Jon sets his eyes forward. They are close enough to abandon their boat. He tosses his oar in the water as he climbs out of the boat. He's knee deep in the ocean waters as he moves toward the shore. When his feet touch the shore, he breaks into a run along as the archers draw their arrows once more. He makes it to the wall and leans his back against it. His mother joins him by the side followed by Arthur Dayne and Daario.

His mother looks to him with her piercing eyes. He can see anger and a thirst for vengeance. "We have to win for Ned, for his wife - for the sons he's lost and for his daughter that has been rendered to a Lannister hostage. My brother must be avenged today, Jon."

"I will do everything I can to win," Jon's voice is hardened and strong. "We have the numbers. We will take King's Landing today."

His men are raising ladders against the city walls. He moves through a crowd of soldiers. He will be the first to climb and lead his men to victory. Jon climbs the wooden ladder, each wooden rung feeling like a small step closer to the Iron Throne. He sees a soldier holding a rock above him and sways to the side to dodge it as it drops passed him. He draws his sword as he reaches the top, driving it through the soldier above him.

Jon leaps onto the battlements, cutting through a wave of enemy soldiers. He dodges their blades while blocking attacks one by one. The scent of blood and sweat pervades the air, and only one thought crosses his mind - _survive_. He sees an impish man next to a blond in striking armor. The imp is giving sharp commands to soldiers and Jon watches as the blond retreats with a group of soldiers.

Daario moves to Jon's side - effectively blocking a blade and delivering a fatal blow on his assailant. Daario cuts through several men, and Jon watches as Daario's sword cuts across the imp's face. The imp steps back with his hand across his gushing wound before collapsing.

"Joffrey has retreated with his men," Jon says. "Follow me."

Daario nods to Jon. Jon breaks into a run as Daario follows. A soldier charges at him. Jon steps to the side and plunges the sword through his side. He kicks the man as he withdraws his blade of Valyrian Steel. Blood of many men have stained the once silver blade, and perhaps tonight it may even cut through the flesh of a false king.

Daario's sword connects with an oncoming blade. Daario pushes the man back, clashing his sword against the heavyset soldier. Daario grunts as the man withdraws his blade to kick him square in the gut. Daario stumbles backwards a few steps before regaining his footing. The soldier raises his sword in an upward motion, leaving his torso open. Daario exploits the soldier's mistake and thrusts his sword between the man's armor.

Jon joins Daario's side as three armoured men surround them. His heart is racing as he manages to dodge an attack. Jon sees Daario's sword connect with another soldiers, and he pushes the man forward with all of his strength over the battlements. Jon steps backward, dodging another attack. He kicks his attacker's knee, and swings his sword against the man's neck, beheading him in one swift motion. He turns to another soldier charging him. His sword almost manages to connect with his arm, but Daario manages slice at the man's knees, forcing him backward as he screams in pain.

"Watch yourself," Daario says. "You've come too far now to die before you touch the throne."

Jon and Daario move side by side as two more soldiers charge towards them. Jon blocks the soldier's sword in an upward motions. The man's sword slips through his hand and Jon uses the opportunity to plunge his sword in the soldier. Daario cuts through his final attacker, and both men continue to walk side by side on the battlements.

In the distance, Jon can see a crown of blond hair rushing away from him. _Joffrey._ He's well guarded by several soldiers. Jon grins over to Daario who returns his smile.

"I'm ready when you are," Daario grins.

"Let's end this," Jon says.

They both break into a sprint as they charge Joffrey's men. Jon raises his sword to meet Joffrey's guard. Their swords connect together again and again. Jon moves back to evade the guard's slicing blade. He cuts downward, slicing the man's arm from his body. The soldier howls in pain as he falls into a pool of his own blood.

"Come on, you little shit!" he can hear Daario taunting. "Stop hiding like a little bitch and fight like a man!"

Jon smiles as Daario continues to throw enthusiastic insults towards Joffrey. He steps forward, his eyes honing in on Joffrey. " _Joffrey Baratheon_ , your men are falling left and right. No one else needs to die tonight. End this now and yield."

Joffrey glowers up at him. "I will not yield even if every single one of my men die for it."

Joffrey draws his sword from his scabbard. Jon feels adrenaline rattling inside him as he approaches the young king. Jon observes Joffrey's stance. His feet are too close together, weakening his center of gravity. He charges him and hits his sword hard against Joffrey's, knocking him backwards. A whimpering cry escapes Joffrey's mouth as he falls, his sword sliding a sizable distance from him. Joffrey scampers backwards as a high pitched whimper escapes his lips. Jon could kill him now if he wanted to, but that would be to easy for the little bastard. Jon sheaths his sword and picks Joffrey up from the ground. He slams his fist against Joffrey's jaw, forcing his head to the side.

"For Lord Eddard Stark," he says before hitting him across his jaw once more.

His fists connected with Joffrey's face again and again. He looks upward to see his mother with her sword drawn. He drops Joffrey to the ground as his gaze meets hers. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are narrowed. She sheathes her sword reluctantly, and he can see all the anger in the world upon her face.

"I should kill you now for the dishonor you've brought upon Ned and his family," she kneels and clenches his chin in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. "But, death would be too easy for such a despicable waste of human flesh. I won't kill you Joffrey Baratheon, but rest assured you will _suffer_."

His mother releases his grip on Joffrey's chin as she rises to her feet. She lays a swift kick into Joffrey's side causing him to howl in pain. Her eyes soften as she steps toward Jon. She places both hands on his cheeks as she looks up to him with pride. Jon looks over the battlements to see men laying their swords down in surrender.

"We did it, Jon," she's breathless and full of awe. "We've won."


	3. The Wolf Meets the Dragon

**_Fire_ _and Ice_**

 _II. The Wolf Meets the Dragon_

Sansa snaps awake from her brief nap. Her mind is racing as various thoughts run through her mind. It's quiet - one side has won this war. It's all matter of who. Perhaps Joffrey is dead and perhaps the Queen as well. It's said that you should never wish ill health or death upon another. Sansa does regardless - at least for the Lannisters.

There is a tapping sound at her door, and she hears a muffled feminine voice call her name from the other side. Shae. Sansa collects her thoughts as she pulls herself off of her bed. She goes to the door, and all she can hope for is that Shae brings good news.

"Lady Sansa!" Shae calls. "Lady Sansa please let me inside."

Sansa slides the bar on her door to the side. She grabs the handle and pushes the door open. Shae darts inside and Sansa pulls the door closed, resetting the bar as soon as the door clicks shut. Shae puts her hand tightly on both of Sansa's biceps, her eyes are dilated, and her grip is tense.

"Jon's army has taken the city," she whispers. "That is all I know as of yet."

The news hits her like a falling boulder. She's numb as the news of Joffrey's defeat settles. There's a mixture of gratitude, but also this contrasting uncertainty. Shae releases her grip, and Sansa goes to her end table to pour two glasses of wine - one for her and one for Shae.

She goes to Shae with one glass in each hand. Shae takes a glass from her, and both take a sip at the same time. Sansa lowers the glass, and glances down into the pool of red liquid. She's become dependent on it over the years. It's a crutch that has helped her conceal her own misery in a haze of lightheaded intoxication.

She shakes her thoughts as she looks to Shae. "What do we do now?"

"We stay in this room until we are summoned," Shae advises.

Sansa brings the wine to her lips. She recalls how drunk Cersei was the night before. The woman's eyes were unfocused and her breath reeked of with alcohol. She pictures the Queen in a prison cell with a headache and vomiting spell that comes after heavy drinking. It brings a small smile to her lips.

"What of the Queen?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," Shae replies. "I left right after I advised you to leave."

Sansa takes another sip of her wine. There are several whispers she's heard of Jon and his mother - her aunt. Neither of them were spoken highly of in King's Landing. Nor would they be. They were enemies of the crown, and to praise the Targaryens would be treason.

"Tell them what kind of man Joffrey was," Shae advises. "It was never your choice to be betrothed to him. What he did to your father is enough proof that they will believe you."

Sansa touches the bruise on her face as she walks to her vanity mirror. It's a very visible purple mark. It is one of the many marks that Joffrey has left on her over the years. It's tragic. She had been so overjoyed by her betrothal to Joffrey at first. Upon learning his true nature, she wanted nothing more than to run back through time and beg herself never to leave Winterfell.

Sansa opens a container of facial cream on the counter below her mirror. Shae had taught her how to conceal these bruises and welts when she first came into her service. Sansa has now perfected the art of blending the cream against her skin to conceal her marks. That was how it had to be under the rule of the Lannisters - smile and pretend it never happened.

Shae's hand wraps around Sansa's before she can dip it into the cream. Sansa looks to Shae.

"You want them to see," Shae says. "When you go King Jon, you will tell him how Joffrey treated you. This mark will be an aid to your confession."

Sansa expels a thick breath. She catches another glance of herself in the mirror. She imagines a king with silver hair and violet eyes looking upon her. There is a gold crown of dragons and jewels upon his head. She sees his eyes soften mercifully as she recounts her story, and she prays to the gods that her thoughts will become her reality.

"It is the last mark he'll ever leave on me," she speaks her thoughts out loud.

Shae's eyes soften upon hearing Sansa's words. "The Targaryen's will not be merciful to Joffrey nor the Lannisters. Jon Targaryen has no reason to keep you as a hostage. You can go anywhere you wish."

"Where would I go?" Sansa asks. "Winterfell is still under the control of the Boltons. Perhaps I could go to the Vale with my aunt, but I can't be sure. I hardly know her or her motives. She has always been fond of Lord Baelish. If he does not kneel to the Targaryens, she won't either."

"You could stay here," Shae suggests.

Sansa thinks of all the horrible experiences she's endured in King's Landing. This is where her father was murdered. This is where Joffrey held a crossbow to her as his guards tore at her clothes. This is the place she's endured so much abuse. Perhaps she might ask to live at the Vale - at least she would no longer have to be reminded of all the horrors she's lived every time she turns around.

There's a loud pounding on the door. Sansa flinches at the sound. She tips back her glass of wine, drowning herself in the dry taste of red wine. She sets the glass down and moves to the door. Her hands shake as she moves the bar from her door and she hopes to the Gods that King Jon is kind.

Sansa pulls the door open and dips into a curtsy for the leather clad men. She eyes golden dragon lapels pinned to each man. Shae's words are true. The Baratheon dynasty has ended.

"Lady Sansa Stark, I presume," a man with thick dark hair says to her. "You are requested by King Jon and Lyanna Targaryen."

"It would be my pleasure," Sansa's words flow from her mouth easily.

Sansa glances back to Shae who offers her an encouraging smile. Sansa squares her shoulders feeling as if the weight of all seven kingdoms rest upon them. She steps outside of her door and follows closely behind the men. Her head is bowed as her eyes focus on the tiled floors.

What if he is worse than Joffrey? Is that even possible - someone to be beneath such a deplorable human being? Aeyrs II Targaryen had been depicted as such. If he's anything like his grandfather, she'll still live in this prison only with a new warden holding the keys to her freedom. Her skin crawls at the thought and doubt starts to fill her. She wants to believe, but she's been so used to disappointment that she's learned to expect the worst.

The guard stops before a room. He opens the door and Sansa follows him inside. "As you requested, your grace, Lady Sansa Stark heir to Winterfell."

Sansa raises her eyes to Jon sitting behind a table with a proud dark haired woman standing next to him. He looks nothing like how others have described the Targaryens. His hair is black and his eyes are a dark rather than a light purple.

Sansa curtsies. "Your grace…"

"She looks just like her mother did at her age," Lyanna smiles before casting her eyes back towards Sansa. "That's a lovely dress."

"Thank you," Sansa's voice is timid. "I made it myself."

"You're quite talented," Lyanna speaks. "Perhaps you shall make something for me one day."

"I would be honored, your grace."

There's a small pause. Jon's eyes glance towards Sansa. He places his hands on top of the wooden desk and laces his fingers together.

"Joffrey Baratheon is our prisoner. You are free of your betrothal to him," Jon explains. "I wish to hear your version of how you came to King's Landing and the events that followed."

Sansa tenses as an imaginary weight presses against her shoulders. "When Robert Baratheon came to visit in Winterfell, I don't deny I was overjoyed to meet the his family. I had always wanted to see King's Landing, and when I was to be betrothed to Joffrey, it all seemed so exciting. I did not know what kind of person he was at the time. On the road to King's Landing, his character starting to show. Already being engaged, I tried to deny - hoping maybe it was all in my head."

Sansa pauses for a moment. She searches Jon's eyes before she continues. "When we reached King's Landing, everything seemed to settle. Then, my father spoke of wishing to go home to me, and soon after, he was jailed."

She pauses as tears well up in her eyes. Recounting these memories is more difficult than she had imagined. "I begged Joffrey and Cersei to be merciful, and Joffrey convinced me that he would be. My father falsely confessed to the crimes he had been accused of. I thought maybe he'd be sent into exile - that he'd search for you and your mother after he was exiled. Maybe that's what Joffrey feared. Maybe that's why he killed him...or maybe he would have done it regardless. Who can really say?"

She lowers her eyes to the floor. "I have been his hostage her ever since he had my father killed."

She manages a glance to Jon. His eyes are gentle as he studies her. He unclasps his hands and rises from his seat. Jon rounds the table and steps towards her. There's a part of her that tenses out of habit. Sansa is so accustomed to Joffrey's behavior that she's learned to expect anything from anyone.

"You are free to stay here," he says. "I won't let Joffrey touch you again."

"Thank you, your grace," her voice is thin and breathless when she speaks.

Sansa glances up into his dark eyes. He's undeniably handsome - more so than she ever thought Joffrey to be. She forces that thought from her mind as Cersei's words come to her mind. For all she knows he could be capable of the same actions as Joffrey.

Yet, she doubts it. She looks to Jon, and she can't see him acting in the ways Joffrey had to her. Their mannerisms - the way they both move and speak - are so completely opposite of each other. Sansa relaxes her shoulders and looks to Lyanna, and then, back to Jon. It's over now. She can finally be at peace.


	4. Jon's Coronation

_**Fire and Ice**_

 _III. Jon's Coronation_

The throne room is large, ominous, and nothing as he expected it to be. He eyes the black banners hanging from the ceiling. They are decorated with the red dragon sigil that represents the Targaryen house. There was a time, many years ago, this day seemed so distant - so impossible. Seeing each detail of the Iron Throne is almost like living a vivid dream.

Jon's dark eyes fall upon the High Septon. He's an elderly man dressed in robes of white and brown that spill to the floor. The man holds a golden crown of dragons and jewels in hand that perfectly accent his blood ties to the Targaryen House. Pride swells in his heart. He has usurped Joffrey Baratheon - the false King that has brought upon one of the worst reigns Westeros has seen. He must strive to be better. That is the first vow he makes to himself. He must do what is right by these people, because Westeros has been ruled for so long by men that have been cruel, neglectful, and merciless.

The High Septon takes a step towards him and begins to recite his coronation speech. "May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these dark times. May the Smith grant him strength, that he might bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead. In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Jon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms." The High Septon places the golden crown upon Jon's head before saying, "Long may he reign!"

"Long may he reign!" his people say in unison.

Jon faces the crowd. There are lords, ladies, and servants that now pledge themselves behind his name. His mother is standing front and center with Daenerys, Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Daario on her sides. These are the men and women he's put his faith in more than any other. They deserve just as much, if not more, credit for his victory at Blackwater Bay.

Jon's eyes shift over to Lady Sansa. House Stark rests upon her shoulders alone. She is the last survivor of Eddard Stark's children. Arya may very well be alive in the wilderness, but her survival is highly questionable. A High Born girl alone on the road - it would be a miracle if Arya survived a matter of days upon fleeing King's Landing.

Sansa's eyes raise to his. A brief smile flashes across her face before she bows her head once more. Her hands are clasped together as her smile brightens just a bit. Jon imagines the life she must have led. For her to wake up each day to a house full of monsters, to endure their threats and constant abuse? How she's still among the living is a miracle in itself.

His eyes drift back to his mother. He steps down to her level and embraces her. "Our day has finally come."

His mother embraces him tightly as she says, "There is still so much ahead of us, Jon. The Boltons, Stannis Baratheon, Tywin Lannister and his first born son - our enemies are many. But, I have faith that we can face them all."

Jon parts from his mother and looks her in her grey eyes. "When the time comes, we will deal with them. We've encountered many enemies before, and we have handled them."

" _Yes_. We will deal with our new enemies just as we have with our previous enemies," his mother agrees as she adjusts the collar of his tunic. "Your father would be so proud, Jon."

Jon pictures a man of silver hair and violet eyes like Daenerys. His mother has spoken so highly of him. She loved him in every possible way a person could love another. He wants to live up to his father - to make him proud. He wants to make this world better not just for his family, but for every living person.

"On this day, we rejoice in feast," his mother says. "In the days to come, we will lay our plans."

Jon walks by his mother's side as the crowd parts around them. He exits the throne room, and he moves through the large halls. Today will be a day of rest. Jon intends to enjoy this day before enduring the chaos that is soon to come.

* * *

Supper arrives. Many guests are seated at their tables. Other guests are dancing with glasses of wine and mugs of ale in hand. The banquet hall is full of life and celebration. Jon cannot help but smile from where he sits.

His mother sits on one side of him and Daenerys sits on the other. Across from him is Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, and the rest of the King's Guard. There are several tables of ladies and lords that have pledged themselves to serve house Targaryen after the siege. One notably that has pledged himself behind him is Petyr of House Baelish. Jon eyes him across the room with complete scrutiny. A half-grin emerges on Lord Baelish's lips as their eyes meet. His eyes flicker from Lord Baelish to Lady Sansa Stark who sits next to Lord Baelish.

Jon notices that her plate is barely touched. Yet, a servant is topping off another full glass of wine for her. Lord Baelish leans to her, whispering into her ear. She raises her eyes to Jon. A small smile emerges on her lips. Lord Baelish eyes him, his half-grin faltering into a grimace.

Lady Sansa lowers her eyes, a wild smile upon her lips. Her fingers touch the stem of her wine glass as she lifts the glass to her lips. She takes a long sip, still holding the glass between her fingers elegantly. Sansa says a few words to Lord Baelish as she rises from her seat. She turns away from him dismissively as she makes her way to the main door, her long blue dress billowing behind her as she leaves.

"Lord Baelish has offered to marry Lysa Arryn," his mother gaze falls onto Petyr, eying him with suspicion. "He has offered to take Lady Sansa with him to the Vale and act as her guardian along with her Aunt Lysa."

"I don't trust him," Jon's voice is hard and clipped.

"Neither do I," she agrees. "But, we need all the allies we can get. We'll have to work with him."

"Lady Sansa will stay here in King's Landing," Jon voice is firm as he glares over at Petyr Baelish. "She's the Heir to the North. We can't put her at risk by sending her off to the Vale. Not when Stannis Baratheon still believes in his claim to the throne and with the Boltons holding the North."

"Let him go to the Vale, but keep Lady Sansa Stark under our protection," Arthur Dayne says in agreement. "We will offer Gregor Clegane to Dorne as a condolence for the murder and rape of Elia Martell. We shall ask them to break their ties with Myrcella Baratheon as well as ask for their allegiance in exchange for Clegane."

"What happens to Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon?" Jon asks. "They are but children. I won't have them tried and executed for their brother and mother's crimes."

"We cannot just pardon them," Daenerys warns. "They are attached to Joffrey and his name. You must be firm, Jon. Now is not the time to show weakness with mercy and kindness."

Jon rises from his seat. The fate of two innocent children are being discussed, and he hardly wishes to even think of an answer to it. "I need some air. If you'll excuse me…"

Jon rounds the table. He catches Lord Baelish leering at him like a snake in the grass. Jon ignores Lord Baelish's smirk as he makes his way to the main door. He exits the banquet hall, forcing all the thoughts of war and politics from his mind. If only for a few fleeting moments, he wishes to just escape it all.

He paces through the halls of The Red Keep with no particular destination in mind. He rounds a corner and opens a door to a large courtyard. Perhaps fresh air shall cleanse his thoughts. He is greeted with only the sound of an owl hooting and crickets chirping as he steps into the courtyard. The sound of nature is somehow soothing to him, and he relishes in the peace of mind he has.

His head is light from ale as he walks through the courtyard. The night is dark, casting looming shadows throughout the courtyard. In Essos, there were priestesses that once would say "the night is dark and full of terrors." They spoke of a Lord of Light - some believed it to be him, others Stannis Baratheon. Jon does not desire to be a lord of light - a deity of sorts. He is but a man just as Stannis Baratheon is. He only wishes to be a fair King - to rule with the best interests of his people.

A faint movement rustles against a bush, pulling him from his thoughts. Jon peers forward - hearing the soft sound of singing. He sees the the back of a long blue dress and long red waves of hair that belong to none other than Sansa Stark.

Sansa is holding a full glass of wine as she walks through the courtyard. She laughs to herself and spins, her skirts swaying slighting as she turns. Sansa stops to take a sip of her wine. She laughs once more and says, "What must I have done to deserve this! Is it you who have blessed me father? Or have the Gods decided to finally be good to me?"

She sits onto a stone bench, humming to herself. She very intoxicated as she sways on the bench. Yet, she's still smiling with brightness of many stars. Jon can't help but smile himself. She seems so happy. He'll leave her to herself. He shifts on his feet, a branch snapping under the pressure of his boot.

Her blue eyes snap upward. She flinches at the sight of him. There's a moment of silence between them before Jon finally speaks. "Lady Sansa…"

"Your grace," she bows her head.

He steps towards her and sits on the bench. Her fingers are fumbling at her glass of wine in a form of nervousness. Sansa shakily brings the glass to her lips once more to sip. She breathes as she lowers the glass. Jon can smell the hint of wine in her breath from where he sits. She's very, very drunk.

They sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before Jon speaks. "I have lived in Essos for as long as I can remember. It's hard to believe I'm here."

She is silent at first, but asks, "What is it like there, your grace? In the East, I mean."

"It's warm," he says. "Warmer so than King's Landing. I lived with my mother, Daenerys, and her brother in Pentos the longest."

She stares into her glass of wine, avoiding his gaze. She heaves a breath of air and asks, "Your uncle no longer lives?"

"No," he shakes his head. He sees streaks of blood matted in silver hair as that memory resurfaces. It was the first time he took a life. Viserys was out of control. He had to. He threatened Daenerys. He threatened his mother. He was left with no choice. That's what he tells himself. It should make it easier, but it never does.

Sansa sips her wine. She lowers her glass and shifts to look up at him. Her eyes are glossy and unfocused. A stand of her hair falls and covers her face. Jon reaches and draws it back from her eyes. She looks up at him with her blue eyes. They soften as she seems to relax.

She smiles sweetly. Her glass of wine slips from her hands, shattering against the cobblestone beneath them. Sansa's cheeks turn a bright red, and Jon bursts into a fit of laughter. She smiles and laughs with him, seeming to forget her previous embarrassment.

Their laughter passes as they both fall quiet. Jon's hand accidentally brushes Sansa's. He feels her head rest upon his shoulder. The hint of wine is still evident in her breath, and Jon imagines she probably would not be leaning against him if she were of clear head.

"I'm happy your king," she murmurs. "I had this thought of what you might be like. I knew that the Lannisters wouldn't be able to hold against your siege. Well, perhaps, I didn't actually know, I just hoped. You are just so different - so much kinder than I had imagined."

Her words bring a smile to his lips. "I imagine any King would be kinder than Joffrey, Lady Sansa."

"No, not just kinder than Joffrey," she whispers. "Kinder than most. You aren't like the Lannisters. You aren't like…"

Her voice trails off as she rests her head against him. She's had quite a bit to drink, and he imagines she's emotionally exhausted after so many years of being tormented by the Lannisters. He puts his arm around her waist. He'll allow her to lay here on his shoulder for a bit longer before escorting her back to her chambers. It is the best he can do for her after all that she's endured. She can rest now. Jon vows, from this day, forward that she'll finally be shown the respect she has been neglected for too long.


	5. Heir to Winterfell

**_AN:_** _I recently was gifted a new laptop by my father. I previously wrote from my tablet on google docs, hence some of the grammar errors in the previous chapter. I did my best to skim through each chapter and correct what my tablet had autocorrected. I'll be posting more chapters promptly. Thank you again for all your reviews and patience in me updating this. You are all so great._

* * *

 _ **Fire and Ice**_

 _V. Heir to Winterfell_

Splitting pain runs through Sansa's skull, stirring her from her slumber. Her eyes snap open as the events of the previous night flit through her head. She was with the King in the courtyard. He'd walked her to her chambers and bid her good night.

Sansa throws her covers off of herself as she comes to her senses. She's still fully dressed. She'd been too drunk to do anything but walk to her bed and sleep upon returning to her chambers last night. Sansa throws her legs over the side of the bed. She goes to the pitcher of water resting on her table. She pours herself a glass of water and sips down each drop as if she were dying of thirst. She sets the glass down, steadying herself on the table.

She should change. Sansa won't risk the embarrassment of being seen this disheveled. She reaches behind herself to untie the lacing in the back of her dress. She manages to pull the dress down her sides. Her shift is all that remains as she takes her dress from the floor and folds it neatly. Sansa sets her folded dress on the edge of her bed. She sits at the end of her bed as a smile forms on her lips.

Last night, she was with the King. She rested upon his shoulder. He helped her to her room. He didn't strike her or belittle her as Joffrey had. He was so kind. Last night was the best night she had since leaving Winterfell. It is as if she's living one of the many dreams she'd had, but this time she won't wake up to that nightmare of a life she once lived.

Lyanna Targaryen is not how she expected nor is her family. Her father would rarely speak of Lyanna, and her mother held contempt for her. Sansa has been led to believe that her aunt was foolish and self-indulgent enough to stir conflict that led to a war. Many people died because Lyanna ran off with Rhaegar including Sansa's uncle and grandfather. Sansa's has been told the narrative that thousands paid with their lives for the actions of a selfish girl, and somehow, the story now seems so much more than she'd been led to believe.

 _"Lyanna Targaryen lives in exile with her son and siblings by law. She is far from us now. It's best that we not speak of her."_

Those were the last words her father had spoken of her aunt. It was on the King's Road. It was after King Robert had went into a drunken tirade upon hearing news of Daenerys being wed to a name Sansa doesn't quite remember. Robert had insisted of killing Jon, Daenerys, and Viserys. Not Lyanna though. Robert had insisted that she be brought back to King's Landing.

Robert's anger had built upon the tension that transpired after Joffrey attacked Arya. An old wound reopens as she relives that memory. Had she been on the King's Road with Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Jon, Sansa is certain that Lady would still be alive. Jon would never have attacked Arya like Joffrey had to begin with. She imagines that perhaps Arya and Jon might even have been fond of each other.

The sound of her door opening breaks her from her thoughts. Sansa almost jumps from bed and turns to see Shae closing the door behind herself. Sansa breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her handmaiden. She'll have to remind Shae to knock before entering.

"Lady Sansa, the King asked me to send for you," Shae says.

"Did his grace inquire a reason?" she asks.

Shae shakes her head in response. "He only asked to speak with you."

Jon is not Joffrey, she reminds herself. The few moments she's been near him, he's been kind. He does not hold malice towards her family name, and he has no reason to hurt her.

Sansa straightens her posture, pushing any doubts from her mind. "I should ready myself."

Sansa goes to her closet, sifting through the many dresses. She sees a peach colored dress. It's a soft color that will make her appear delicate and feminine. She pulls the dress from her closet and lays it on her bed.

Sansa goes to her vanity mirror and sits before it. Shae takes her brush in hand and runs it through her crimson hair. Sansa loses herself in thought and an odd nervousness comes over her. It's a mixture of excitement and the silly fear of rejection.

Her cheeks burn at the thought of Jon's dark hair. Her head becomes light as she pictures herself leaning on his shoulder. She imagines him complimenting her dress and telling her she's beautiful.

Sansa glances up at herself. Her hair is too straight and too plain. She turns and takes Shae's wrist softly in her hands. "My hair is too plain. Please curl it for me."

Her voice is half-pleading and half-demanding. Shae's eyes brighten and she smiles. "Of course, Lady Sansa."

A smile forms on her lips as she thinks of Joffrey. She imagines herself next to Jon with a crown on her head. She is the Queen, and he is nothing. It's only a thought - a silly little daydream, but it lifts her spirits nonetheless.

* * *

Sansa's original intention was to go the King herself. In her own innocence, she had imagined him to be taken by her. Perhaps he would court her and ask her to stay in King's Landing. Her family's reputation that Joffrey had blemished, because Jon is a man of honor - the kind of man poets would write songs about.

Shae had just finished tying the lacing on her dress when Lord Baelish had come to her door to escort her to the King. Sansa feels a familiar irritation much like the frustration she had felt on the King's Road. It's that feeling of having little control. She shouldn't feel any ill feelings to Lord Baelish. He's been kind to her, but she does not wish to leave King's Landing. Perhaps many days before she'd jump at the chance, but Sansa wishes to be here. She wants to be with Jon, Lyanna, and even Daenerys despite how intimidating she appears.

The Targaryens aren't the Lannisters. Sansa has convinced herself this. Jon is not Joffrey, and Lyanna is not like Cersei.

"Your Aunt Lysa is most delighted to see you."

His words are like a dagger to her heart. Have the King and Queen decided to send her off with Lord Baelish. Sansa heart is heavy as led. She's already selecting words to convince Jon to let her stay.

"Does this displease you, my lady?" Lord Baelish says. "I was under the impression you wished to leave with me. This castle was like a prison to you for so long, and this city is where your father was murdered. I imagine this is the last place you would wish to be."

The memory of her father's beheading resurfaces. She feels threatened, but she's not sure why. "I...I remember, but King Jon is not like Joffrey. I think I would like to stay."

Lord Baelish is leering at her. He scowls momentarily before his lips curl into a smile. "This world is not a song, Lady Sansa. It is not wise to make decisions on the tales of bards. Lysa is your family, and no one else would care more for you than Lysa and myself."

Petyr Baelish stops before a door. He does not speak. He only looks at her in this peculiar way. It reminds her of the way Sandor Clegane had often looked upon her. He half-smiles to her before his eyes lift from her. He takes the golden door knob in hand and pushes the door open.

Sansa follows behind Lord Baelish inside. She sees King Jon sitting behind the same desk Queen Cersei had sat behind when asking her to write to Robb. Daenerys stands next to him, her purple eyes hardened as she looks to Lord Baelish.

"Ah," Jon lifts his eyes briefly. "Lord Baelish, Lady Sansa. It's a pleasure to see you both."

Sansa dips into a curtsy. "The pleasure is mine, your grace."

The King smiles to her. Her head becomes light and her legs are numb as she goes to sit before him. Sansa hopes that he might dismiss Lord Baelish. Sansa will speak the words her lady mother had spoke of Lysa Arryn - of her instability and carelessness that was known to both her mother and father. She can stay here with Jon where she's safe.

"It is my understanding that you will be leaving to the Vale at first light, Lord Baelish," the King's eyes do not lift as he writes on a piece of parchment.

"Precisely, your grace," Lord Baelish replied.

"I wish you safe travels, Lord Baelish," Jon's voice is clipped, his eyes still not lifting from his parchment.

"I have one last request," Lord Baelish states.

"Go on," Jon raises his eyes to Lord Baelish.

"I ask that Lady Sansa accompany me to the Vale," Lord Baelish asks. "Lysa Arryn and I would like to take her in as our ward."

"I would prefer that, Sansa Stark stay in King's Landing under my protection," Jon says dismissively. "I cannot honor your request."

"Your grace, I ask that you reconsider," Lord Baelish's tone lowers an octive. "Who can say if Stannis Baratheon will lay siege to King's Landing? She will be safer at the Vale away from threats of war from your enemies."

Sansa lowers her eyes to her lap. Her hands clutch together tightly. She doesn't want to leave with Petyr Baelish, because she wants to be here in King's Landing with Jon. She parts her lips to speak of her desire to remain in King's Landing, but restrains herself.

Daenerys crosses her arms together and eyes Lord Baelish with contempt. "Lord Baelish - my nephew has made his wishes very clear. Sansa Stark will stay here under our protection. This is not a negotiation."

"Forgive me," Lord Baelish bows his head to Daenerys. "I only wish the best for Sansa Stark. When I marry Lysa Arryn, she will be my niece by law. It is my duty to ensure her safety."

"There is no need for concern. Again, I wish you safe travels, Lord Baelish," Jon dismisses.

The room is heavy with silence. Petyr Baelish bows his head once more before exiting from the room. Jon sets his quill to the side, a small smile forming across his lips. Sansa's heart becomes heavy as his eyes soften. "Lady Sansa, it pains me to know of all the atrocities you endured under Joffrey's brief reign. I understand that what I'm asking will be difficult, but Cersei and Joffrey must stand trial for their actions. I ask that you testify against them."

Sansa glances to Jon, and then to Daenerys. Daenerys' arms uncross as she sets one hand on the desk. "Joffrey and Cersei will be tried. You must testify before them. Jon will be there as will Lyanna. We will not allow the Lannisters to harm you, Lady Sansa."

Sansa's heart twists at the thought of seeing Joffrey and Cersei. She remembers the time Joffrey had threatened her a crossbow - how his men had her gown ripped and almost torn it from her. Sansa's fingers clutch the fabric of her dress. Her eyes move from Daenerys back to Jon.

"I would be honored to testify, your grace."

Jon smiles at her answer. "You can rest easy in the nights to come, Lady Sansa. There are other matters I must tend to before Joffrey and Cersei's trial. The North is divided. There are those that believe your loyalty to our claim. Others believe you to be a hostage as you were to the Lannisters."

"I am happy here, your grace," Sansa insists. "I may have been Joffrey's hostage, but I am loyal to you and your family by choice."

"We do not doubt your loyalty," Daenerys says. "Roose Bolton does not have claim to the North. This is his way to plant doubt to keep his hold on Winterfell. We suspect that he will continue align himself with Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey in the war to come."

"The Queen was born a Stark," Sansa raises her eyes to Daenerys, and her voice falters slightly. Her shoulders are squared back and her violet eyes are piercing. Sansa breathes as she forces herself to continue. "Is that not enough for the Northern Houses to swear fealty to your family?"

"I wish it were so, but they see my mother as a Targaryen rather than a Stark," Jon answers. "Nonetheless, the North still remembers the Boltons' betrayal. Unless Arya still lives, you are the last of Eddard Stark's children. Roose Bolton will not win the support of the North so long as you speak in our favor."

"This is why you must write to the North and speak in favor of Jon's claim," Daenerys advises.

Daenerys moves a stack of beige parchment to Sansa's end of the desk. Sansa glances up to Daenerys. Then, she shifts her eyes back to Jon who is dipping his quill into black ink. He raises his eyes to her as he offers the black quill to her.

"Roose Bolton conspired and aided in the murder your brother and your mother," Daenerys reminds her. "We will make him suffer for his betrayal."

Sansa glances down at the blank parchment. She looks back to Jon and takes the quill from his hand. She addresses the first letter to House Mormont. Only one of Maege Mormont's daughters remains on Bear Island. Lyanna - the same name as the Queen. It's a silly notion, but it comforts her nonetheless.

 _To Lyanna of House Mormont:_

 _I, Sansa of House Stark, write from King's Landing in support of Jon of House Targaryen..._

Sansa pauses as she glances down at the black ink drying against the parchment. She draws in another breathe. _This is right_ , she tells herself. _This is what my father would want me to do._ Sansa sets the quill against the parchment and continues to write.


	6. The Proposal

_**Fire and I**_

 _V. The Proposal_

The letter from Arya Stark had come as a shock to him. Jon had never met the girl, but it seemed far fetched that she would agree to marry Roose Bolton's bastard. That aside, Sansa is the Heir to Winterfell. For Arya to make a claim against her own sister by marrying Ramsay Bolton was the sharpest treason against her own family.

His mother had gone to retrieve Sansa Stark for him. Jon felt pity for the girl. Arya Stark was the last of her family. How heartbreaking would it be for her to learn that her own sister was against her?

The doors to his solar opened. His mother entered with Sansa. She seemed chipper and in high spirits. His mother had not yet delivered the news to her. She curtsied elegantly as her eyes looked to his. The words he would soon give her were going to tear her heart to shreds. He quite liked Sansa. She was kind of heart, a survivor in her own way, and quite pretty. The thought of her crumbling into tears was heart wrenching to even think about.

"You asked for me, your grace," she says with a smile.

There are several ways to tell her and each of these ways will break her spirits. He does not wish to be too blunt. Thus, Jon pauses as he selects his words carefully.

"We have news of your sister."

Her eyes light up and a smile crosses her lips. "Arya's alive?"

His insides feels as if they are twisting into knots. His heart is heavy as a boulder. Jon draws in a deep breath. "Arya Stark appears to be alive and has written from Winterfell."

His mother takes the parchment from his table and hands it to Sansa. Her eyes are eager as her hands take the letter into her hand.

"To my traitorous sister and her false king…" he watches as the joy drains from her face as she speaks. Her next words tremble as she continues to read. "I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, pledge myself to Ramsay Bolton. Lyanna Targaryen is not a Stark. She is a treasonous…"

She does not read the next word aloud. Targaryen Whore was what Arya Stark called his mother. Jon looks to Sansa. What was once a smile dissolves into a look of pure shock. Her brow furrows as her eyes begin to water. She brings the back of her fingers to her lips. She's shaking, and it becomes evident that she had no part in the contents of the letter. How could she? She has been in King's Landing since he's landed here.

"It's not her," Sansa's voice chokes. "The letters are well crafted, and the signature is too elegant. My sister never wrote this well."

"Roose must have had a servant write on your sister's behalf," his mother's voice is soft.

Sansa's eyes are reddened with tears as she glances up to Jon. She looks back to the letter. Her eyes widen as her fingers run over the paper. Her eyes narrow a bit, and she draws in a sharp breath.

"The writing is not my sister's," Sansa says. "But, I've seen it before. I don't remember. It's been so long since I left Winterfell. The penmanship appears as if it was written by a woman, but I can't be so sure."

"Your Lord Father and Lady Mother had many friends in Winterfell - some true and some false," his mother says. "Can you recall any suspicious behavior, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa's eyes are on his mother's. She glances back to Jon once more, and then, back down at the paper. She doesn't remember. He can see the defeated look in her eyes. She wants to remember, because she wants to help. Her eyes look to him once more lost and shameful almost.

"I wish I could remember, your grace," she says, "A woman I know has written this letter, but I swear to the old gods and the new that it was not Arya. Her and I - we had many differences, but she loved her family. She never wished to marry, and if by happenstance she decided to marry, it would not be to Ramsay Bolton."

"Time has passed," Lyanna says. "With time comes change. We are not privy to the life Arya has led since leaving King's Landing. The trials she's faced might have changed the pride she once carried."

"I know this is not her," Sansa insists. "Whoever is to wed Ramsay Bolton, I swear it is not Arya."

Jon wishes to believe her, but the North is convinced this woman is Arya Stark. The woman would be well informed of the Stark's history and would also bear a striking resemblance to the youngest Stark girl. It seems so unlikely that the Boltons would be fortunate enough to come across such a person to pass off as Eddard Stark's youngest daughter.

The North seems very well convinced. He wants to believe Sansa's assumptions, but there just seems more evidence to the contrary. A girl does not appear out of nowhere that would be convincing enough to set the North against his claim to the Iron Throne. If not Arya, it would have to be a girl that grew up in Winterfell. The people in Winterfell would have watched this woman grow, and there would be many in the North contesting her claim.

Sansa is searching his eyes for approval. He wishes that he could grant her his approval, but the reality is laid out so plainly before him. In order to progress, he must be realistic in what might come. "Lady Sansa, my family does not doubt your loyalty, and we would like nothing more than your assumptions to be true. The reality is that the North is convinced this is indeed your younger sister. To pass such a forgery would only occur in a series of highly unlikely circumstances."

Her eyes lower, and he can see all the grief in her eyes. Her hands clutch the silver fabric of her dress. Her lips part as she releases a ridged sigh. She's fighting back her tears. He can see it by the way she blinks her eyes and cranes her head upward.

"If Arya wrote this letter, she was coerced by threats just as I was for years by Joffrey."

She glances back down at the parchment in her hand with all the sadness in the world. His mother takes the parchment from her hand as she rests her hand on Sansa's shoulder.

"Perhaps you should rest on this," she advises. "It is much to take in, and it may be days before you can think with a clear head."

Sansa rises to her feet. Her hands clasp together. She looks to his mother and then to him. She parts her lips and almost speaks. But, Sansa stops herself and squares her shoulder back.

"I thank you for your counsel, Lady Sansa," Jon says. "Rest well."

"It was my pleasure, your grace," Sansa courtesies.

His mother guides her to the door. She whispers a few words of condolences. Sansa breathes deeply as she nods. His mother opens the door for Sansa. She exits, her features stricken with both shock and grief. The door clicks shut and his mother turns to him.

"Sansa is the eldest of the sisters," Lyanna says. "The Heir to Winterfell is Sansa Stark regardless if Arya has made a marriage alliance with Ramsay Bolton."

"The Karstarks and Umbers have still pledged their Houses to the Bolton's and the North does not see our house as allies," Jon says and repeats Lyanna Mormont's words. "The North does not recognize a King accept a King in the North. If they are convinced this fraud is Arya Stark is their Queen per say, it would may make Ramsay appear as a King in their eyes."

"Then, end this. Marry Lady Sansa," Lyanna words are sharp. "She is the eldest and the proper heir. Marry Sansa Stark and be done with it."

His mother's words hang in the air onminously. It's a solution - possibly the best one he can think of at the moment. There is likely another way, and perhaps that way will come to him in time. Jon does not dislike the idea of marrying Sansa Stark. She very pretty from her bright smile that lights her eyes and her long crimson hair that spills down her back. Still, Lord Tyrell has attempted to write for him to marry his daughter. If he chooses to marry Sansa, the Tyrells will offer their daughter to another.

"What of Margaery Tyrell?" Jon asks.

"We have yet to meet her," his mother says. "That aside, she has already been married to the late Lord Renly. The Tyrell's intentions are a grasp for power, and the moment our reign turns sour who's to say if the Tyrell's will still remain loyal to us."

His mother pauses. She goes to a side table and pours herself a glass of wine. Jon watches as she sips the wine.

"I married for love," she says. "Some say it is foolish, but here I am at King's Landing with my son on the throne. Marry someone you trust Jon. Marry someone that is pleasant to be around. People marry for alliances and land, but rarely because they can stand to be around the person. Sansa looks to you with admiration not with a thirst for power. She would be loyal to you in death just as I was when Rhaegar died."

Jon considers his mother's words. He could hardly say he's in love with Sansa - not in the way his mother loved her father. She's pleasing to the eye, and she's pleasant company. She might admire him in certain ways, but it would be foolish to believe that she could be in love with him. To force her into a betrothal would be a high form of dishonor to her.

"Sansa must agree. I will not force her into marriage to further my own interests."

His mother's grey eyes are on him. "And, if she does not wish to marry you?"

"Then, we find another way," Jon says. "She is not a pawn to marry off to whomever we choose just as you were never a mere object to be sold off to Robert Baratheon."

There a heavy silence between the two at his last words. His mother looks to him with her eyes sharp eyes. "There are days I think back to the actions I took as a girl. I don't regret them, but thousands died for the choice I made."

"Thousands will soon die for our claim," Jon reminds. "You can hardly blame yourself for how Robert Baratheon lashed out."

"He believed what he was doing was to protect me," her voice quivers at her next words. "To save me. People died believing I was a distressed damsel. Elia Martell and her children were among those dead. We have to make wiser choices as leaders if we want people to fight for us."

"And, you believe marrying Sansa Stark is a wise choice?" he says. "We will slight the Tyrells and lose any chance at their allegiance."

"But, we gain the North and Riverrun," she says. "Who will they marry Margaery to if not you? Ramsay Bolton is to marry Arya Stark. Joffrey will be dead within the days to come. Tommen is in our custody. Stannis is already wed to Selyse. Perhaps the Freys? But, that's a stretch."

"They won't take our side," Jon reminds. "Still, High Garden is but one ally. We have Dorne. We have the Vale. We will have Riverrun and the North as well."

"It's the best choice we can make," his mother advises.

"I will ask for her hand tonight," Jon says. "If she declines, we will accept the Tyrell's offer."

* * *

Night had fallen when Jon sought for Sansa Stark. He had been informed that she had sought solace in the Godswood. When he finds her, she is sitting beneath a large tree, her silver skirts spilling around her in a circle. Her head is lowered as her hands are clasped on top of her lap.

He goes towards her. Her sea blue eyes raise to his as a soft gasp escapes her. "Your grace…"

"Lady Sansa…"

Perhaps he expected her to be afraid of him - that he would take Arya Stark's betrothal out on her as Joffrey had taken to her to express his wrath. There's a meek smile across her pink lips as she looks to him. Her eyes are distant and full of grief. But, she does not fear him.

"I used to come here only to be alone," she says. "It was the only place I had to myself. I prayed, but after I time, I might have lost my faith in the Gods."

She pauses and lowers her eyes to her hands. She laughs a little to herself before saying, "It wasn't until you won against the Lannisters that I really started to believe again."

Jon steps to her and drops to his knees to meet her eyes. He takes her hands in his. "The North is convinced that Arya Stark is in Winterfell and eager to marry Roose Bolton's bastard."

"She's being coerced," Sansa says. "Or another girl is posing as my sister."

"I believe you, but the North believes this girl is Arya Stark," Jon speaks. "You are the Heir to Winterfell - the Queen in the North."

"I am not a Queen, your grace. You are my King, and I am but the heir to Winterfell - a Lady of the North. To assert myself as a Queen would slight your rightful claim."

Their eyes meet. Her hair, her eyes, the way she speaks - everything about her is so elegant, so beautiful…

"I am asking that you be my Queen."

Her eyes dilate and another soft gasp escapes her. Her fingers are trembling as her eyes become glossy.

"Forgive me," he says. "I have asked too much of you."

"There is nothing to forgive," she whispers as a look of awe crosses her features. "It's just so hard to believe, because this is all I've ever wanted since you came to the Red Keep."

He places a hand on her cheek. Jon leans forward and shares a chaste kiss with his newly betrothed. He vows he will be gentle with her. He will give her the tender love she's been denied for so long. He will be brave. He will be gentle. He will be kind.


End file.
